The Butterfly flaps
Long
ago, not Fate nor
Divine,
just the Beginning of motion.
The Breeze whistles on, growing louder until stars ignite
and Matter
all bursts outward into one Big
bloom of plasma. Everything (eventually)
organizes itself. Life
is born from The Breeze
and collides into wheels and cities and weapons
and a man in a flower shop Saturday evening.
finite space with Infinite outcomes—Too Much
choice, and no way to tell right from wrong;
sunflowers feel performative
roses overdone
lilies too quiet
rows of colorful curves unfurl painfully to Infinity—
each bloom fractals outward,
a petal repeating a petal repeating
some pattern
Much older than both of us.
self-similarity, like how
I always see
You in everything
I think about color theory, about symmetry, about
how this shop
is a
chaotic system governed by dreams and scent
and memory. and still I try to solve it.
to choose right in chaos
—
to hand
You something that says: this is perfect and
I made it because it’s just like You.
curiously, I don’t really
remember
what I end up choosing, but upon further thought
it doesn’t matter in the End. every
flower
and scent and person and world
is just a sum of collisions since the Beginning
and yet once
The Butterfly flapped long ago, not Fate nor Divine,
and motion began and Matter folded in on itself
It was set
that as Everything in the Universe rippled
in slowly, Everything would inevitably,
inexplicably
,
form Two people and converge
into a Moment like this: My Hand, Flowers,
and You
—